


if I'm butter, then he's a hot knife

by mountainsbeyondmountains



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, One Shot, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 01:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountainsbeyondmountains/pseuds/mountainsbeyondmountains
Summary: She’s trying to manipulate you, a voice in Jon’s head tells him. But he’s happy to let her try.





	if I'm butter, then he's a hot knife

“I hate politics,” Jon says.

It’s not the first time he’s uttered those words. Not the second time, either, or the tenth, or the twentieth. Probably not even the thousandth. And, considering that he’s currently attending a presidential campaign fundraiser in King’s Landing, it probably won’t be the last.

The only other partygoer close enough to hear Jon’s words is Davos Seaworth, who frowns into his champagne flute. Jon expects him to offer some kind of rebuke, filled with Davos’ signature salt-of-the-earth wisdom. After all, his Chief of Staff shouldn’t allow the Warden of the North to be so openly cynical. But instead, Davos says, “The champagne at Cersei’s fundraiser was better.”

“Of course. Say what you will about Cersei Lannister” -which Jon  _ did,  _ often and loudly- “but she does know her alcohol."

It wouldn’t please their current host, Daenerys Targaryen- Cersei’s opponent for the Westerosi presidency- to overhear such remarks. When Daenerys heard that the incumbent president was throwing a lavish fundraiser at one of the capitol’s most opulent mansions, she’d been incensed. Jon had advised her to use the occasion as an opportunity to publicly criticize the wasteful nature of Cersei’s administration. Instead, Daenerys had decided to throw her own event, on that very same night, in a venue just across the street from Cersei’s. She’d also declared that her fundraiser would include fireworks.

Daenerys did love her pyrotechnics.

Jon hated all of it. The fireworks, the champagne, the way people here could smile and shake your hand one moment, then stick a knife in your back the next. This was the cesspit where Jon’s mentor, former Warden Stark, had met his demise. Heart attack, the obituary claimed. Murder, others had whispered.

Jon adjusts his collar and tries to loosen his tie. That’s another thing he hates, the stupid tuxedo he’s been forced to wear. “Why did I even agree to come to this thing?”

“To see if either candidate was worth endorsing, and to advocate for northern independence,” Davos reminds him. 

“I should have just stayed in Winterfell. I should’ve listened to Sansa.” It’s not the first time Jon’s uttered  _ those  _ words either. And he knows for certain that it won’t be the last.

Davos must know it too, for his frown deepens into a full-blown scowl, and he says, “I think you listen to Ms. Stark a little too much, Jon. Besides, she didn’t even follow her own advice.”

“What do you mean?”

Davos points across the crowd of donors, pundits, and politicians. “She’s right over there.”

At first, Jon is tempted to believe that someone spiked his champagne- he wouldn’t put it past the present company- because surely what he’s seeing is some figment of the imagination. He’s heard Sansa Stark swear, on countless occasions, that she wouldn’t step foot in King’s Landing. Never again. Yet here she is, wearing a royal blue gown, holding a flute of slightly inferior champagne, and laughing with Tyrion Lannister and Varys Blackfyre. 

What could possibly cause Sansa to break her own promise and come here? Jon takes a step forward, intent on finding out, but Davos grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. “Wait,” he hisses. “Have you made a decision yet? About Daenerys’ offer?”

The night before, Daenerys Targaryen had asked Jon to be her running mate. First Varys, as her senior strategist, had explained to Jon that Daenerys was doing more poorly in the polls than they had hoped. “People in Westeros tend to see her as disconnected from the realities of everyday, hardworking citizens, as well as out-of-touch and egotistical,” he’d said. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Daenerys then interjected. “I’m completely down-to-earth.” She gesticulated with her hands as she spoke, and knocked over a tall stack of posters emblazoned with her face and name.

“We need a vice president who will balance out her… less favorable traits. You’re ideal- humble, experienced, a veteran, a man. Plus, you survived the assassination attempt. That’s political gold right there. The only thing people love more is when someone dies young.”

Jon had asked them for time to think about their offer. “Why?” Daenerys asked him. “You’d be the second most powerful person in Westeros.”

He hadn’t known how to tell her that he didn’t  _ want  _ that, not when she obviously wanted it so much. He didn’t fault her for it. But he couldn’t understand it either. 

Now Jon tells Davos, “No, I haven’t made up my mind. Why are you asking?”

“Because I don’t think you should talk to Ms. Stark about it before you reach a definite answer on your own. She might try to influence you.”

“Are you implying that Sansa  _ manipulates _ me?”

“Well… yes.”

“That’s ridiculous. No one is manipulating anyone,” Jon scoffs. And then he promptly goes to stand by Sansa’s side. He just catches the end of one of Tyrion’s anecdotes- “and  _ that’s  _ why you never bring a live lobster into a Dornish casino”- followed by Sansa’s polite laughter. He notices that Sansa’s champagne flute is almost full, while Varys keeps his hands hidden in his pockets, and Tyrion clutches an enormous thermos that Jon knows from an experience isn’t filled with coffee. Tyrion and Cersei do share some similarities, after all.

“Warden Snow!” Tyrion greets him. “”I’m surprised to see you at a party.”

“Call me naive, but I thought this was supposed to be a campaign fundraiser.”

Tyrion waves his hand. “Tomato, tomahto. But I thought you couldn’t come to events where you could possibly have fun, Snow. Always suspected you had some kind of masochistic fetish for misery. Unless you’re here because you decided to say yes to our little offer?”

“Believe me, Tyrion, if I was really a masochist, I would have accepted right away. Actually, I was hoping to speak to Ms. Stark for a moment?”

“Of course, of course.” Tyrion pats Sansa on the arm affectionately. “I was just catching up with my old assistant. She was assigned to work for me as punishment, you know, after what happened with my dear nephew- may God barbecue his soul for all eternity. Cersei assumed that I’d drive the poor girl to some spectacular nervous breakdown, and that Sansa would then disappear from politics forever. But look at her now- all grown up, mayor of the biggest city in the North!”

“I certainly paid my dues scrubbing your vomit for all those months,” Sansa says to him. “Speaking of which, maybe you should stop chugging from that thermos, Tyrion. Or at least chug slower.”

“You really ought to listen to her,” Varys adds. 

Tyrion slurs, “Oh Varys, don’t tell me you’re changing teams  _ again.  _ It’s so hard to keep up- first Daenerys, then Warden Snow, now Sansa?”

“I just think it would be a mistake to underestimate her, that’s all.”

“A mistake you’ve made in the past,” Sansa says to him pointedly. 

“That’s true,” Varys admits. “But I learn from my missteps. I’ve advised Daenerys that if she has any hope of winning the North, she has to gain your endorsement. I’m sure she’ll seek you out before the night is through. But of course you didn’t hear that from me.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on her side,” Sansa says.

“There’s only one side. The winning one.”

“Morally ambiguous as ever, Varys.”

“On the contrary, I might be one of the most moral people in this room. But still, the criticism is a bit rich, my dear, coming from someone who keeps Petyr Baelish as one of her top advisors.”

A single mention of the man has Jon glancing around the room. He makes sure to check the shadowy corners- Baelish has a habit of lurking in those. “He isn’t  _ here _ , is he?”

“No.” Sansa weaves her arm through Jon’s, and says to Varys and Tyrion, “It was delightful to see you, but the Warden and I have urgent matters to discuss. I’m sure I’ll see you later.” 

“Oh, I’ll make sure of it,” Varys promises.

Jon allows Sansa to gracefully lead him through the crowd, exchanging brief hellos and smiles with acquaintances. Watching the way people turn toward her like flowers toward the sun, Jon is reminded of how  _ good  _ she is at this. She belongs here, better than he does, better than her father did, even if she hates to admit it. 

Eventually, they reach a more secluded section of the mansion. As soon as no one’s close enough to eavesdrop, Sansa says to Jon, “I knew better than to bring Petyr here. I’d hate to have you try and strangle him again.”

“He deserved it that time!”

“I’m sure he did.”

Sansa slips her arm away from Jon’s and walks down the hallway, opening indiscriminate doors. Most of the mansion’s hiding places have already been filled by this time of night; Jon catches glimpses of crisp bills changing hands, lines of blow on a marble countertop, a woman’s hand, the fingernails painted scarlet, clawing at a man’s back. 

Finally, one of the doors opens to an empty room. Jon steps inside, turns on a lamp. It’s a small library- all gleaming hardwood floors, rare first editions, and rich amber decanters of good vintages. The space feels more private than anywhere else he’s been in King’s Landing, but even he knows that this sense of safety is only an illusion. 

He leans up against the wall, suddenly needing to feel something solid. Sansa, meanwhile, perches on a desk like she owns the place. “Why did you come here?” Jon asks her.

She raises an eyebrow, and he quickly amends, “Not that I’m not glad to see you, I’m just-”

“Surprised? Imagine how I felt when a little bird told me that you were offered a job.”

“How did you even find out about that? She asked me over a private dinner, just me and her team were there.”

“I keep Baelish around for a reason, you know. But I wouldn’t have to rely on him if you just  _ told  _ me.”

Jon knows he doesn’t owe her anything, but the way she’s looking at him makes him feel guilty regardless. As if he’s broken some kind of promise. “I was going to tell you,” he insists. “As soon as I reached a decision. You were the first person I was going to tell.”

“Well, that would be stupid. You’d have to tell Daenerys first, obviously,” she snaps in reply. “Let me guess- Davos didn’t want you to talk to me about it.”

All it takes is one look at his face for Sansa to know that her accusation rings true. Her words hang between them, lingering, acrid as smoke. Hoping to dispel the tension- or at least redirect it- Jon asks, “Have you seen Daenerys yet?”

The tactic works. Sansa’s look of displeasure becomes less searing as she says, “No, thank God. But we’ve both been invited to attend this stupid  _ women in politics  _ round table discussion. It’s so patronizing- the only thing Daenerys Targaryen and I have in common is that we both look good in power suits. I’m calling it now- the whole thing going to be me trying to talk about actual policy, and her going on about  _ spreading democracy  _ in Essos and  _ breaking the wheel,  _ whatever  _ that’s _ supposed to mean.”

“She’s not that bad,” he grins.

“She’s not that good, either.” Sansa appraises him. “So are you going to tell her yes?”

“I don’t know yet,” Jon admits. 

“You’d be the second-”

“-most powerful person in the country. Why does everyone keep telling me that? I don’t care about power. I think I might be allergic to it, actually.”

Sansa laughs, throwing her head back in a way that makes Jon notice the long line of her throat, the gleam of her hair in the low golden light, her teeth bared beneath curled lips. “You’re just too good to be true, aren’t you, Jon? You may not care about power, but you do care about helping people. So, the question is, do you think you could help people better as Warden of the North or as Vice President of Westeros?”

“I don’t know, Sansa. I never learned how to play the game here- I’m not like Tyrion, or Varys, or Cersei, or you.”

“They didn’t ask me, though. They asked you.”

Jon instantly knows that she’s not referring to the vice presidency.

Shortly after he’d left the Night’s Watch ( _ honorably  _ discharged, no matter what the rumors claimed), shortly after Sansa had quit her position at Baelish’s law firm and moved back north, they’d both been asked to attend a meeting in Winterfell. Several prominent local politicians were there, sitting on the other side of the conference table. Men in suits, men with silver in their hair, men who made the decisions that governed the North. They’d described the need to find a new Warden. Someone young. Someone well-connected. Someone who loved the North. Someone who could beat Roose Bolton in the upcoming election. 

Jon remembers the way that, with every word these men spoke, Sansa had sat up a little straighter, smiled a little wider. And he remembers that way her smile faded but her spine remained straight as the men in suits asked him to run, not her. 

She’d end up running for Mayor of Winterfell instead, and winning by a landslide. She had done as the establishment directed her, and she’d done it very, very well. She’d endorsed Jon, campaigned by his side, helped edit his speeches, helped him choose what tie to wear every morning. She had never complained. Not even once.

“If I said yes, and Daenerys won,” Jon says to her now, “I’d have to step down as Warden. They’d hold a special election. They’d ask you to run, I know they would. And you’d win, Sansa.”

“I would be the Warden,” she says softly. Jon would think the trembling in her voice was the thrill of victory, if not for her next words: “I would be the Warden, and we would never see each other again. Not really. Not like we do now.”

She’s right, of course. She’s always right. There would be no more secret rendezvouses in libraries at ostentatious fundraisers. No more late nights on the phone in their respective offices, falling asleep on stacks of paperwork. No more arguing over whether to use the word  _ beneficial  _ or  _ advantageous  _ in a speech. He wouldn’t ask her to knot his tie anymore, and she would never again ask him to untangle the clasp of her necklace from her hair. 

And there would be no more moments like the one they’re having now: him bridging the distance between them in two long strides, her legs sliding apart to welcome him. They’ve done this enough times that there’s no hesitation now. Every cutting remark and every longing glance, every swallowed hurt and touch that lasted a moment too long has been another piece of kindling laid on the pyre, months in the making. And now they allow themselves to set it ablaze, warm themselves and dance around the flames. 

_ She’s trying to manipulate you,  _ a voice in Jon’s head tells him. But he’s happy to let her try.

They break apart, eventually. They always do, eventually. Because of her reputation and his belated sense of honor, his guilt and regret. They won’t speak of it later. If they do make mention of it, it’ll only be in veiled references: that night in the library, the ride in the limo, the post-primary celebration at the bar. They usually blame it on alcohol, or victory, or loss. But there’s no taste of liquor of either of their lips, of course, and Jon’s not sure which one of them is winning or losing.

He asks, “What if we left?”

Sansa looks at him, startled, but a little curious despite herself. The kiss has lowered her defenses, just as it’s given Jon the courage to say, “What if we both resigned, and became ordinary people? Not Warden of the North and Mayor of Winterfell. Just Jon and Sansa.”

“What, run off to Pyke and open a bed and breakfast like Theon and Robb did?”

“Exactly. White picket fence, two and a half kids. A good neighborhood. Soccer practice, ballet recitals. Adopt some dogs. Grow old together.”

The words come easily to him. He’s imagined it so many times. A part of Jon believes that he wants it so fiercely, he could open the library door and step into the living room of the house he and Sansa share. He’d find the television playing news that he didn’t care about, the kids red-cheeked from playing outside in the cold, Sansa curled up reading a novel and drinking tea, the dogs wagging their tails. 

“You make it sound so perfect,” Sansa sighs. “But it could never happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because no matter how many times you say you hate politics, I know you don’t. You want to help people. And you’re ambitious. And the north needs you, Jon.”

He could prove her wrong. He could pull out his cell phone, call Davos, resign right this very moment. But she knows him better than anyone. He doesn’t do it. 

“What would you do?” Jon asks her. “If you were me?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because I value your opinion, Sansa.”

She smiles at that, more than she would at any compliment toward her beauty or offer to run way or confession of eternal love. “Want me to be honest?”

“Always.”

“If I were you, I’d accept.” She slides off the desk, straightens his tie and smooths her skirts until they’re ready to enter the fray again. She kisses him on the cheek, one last time, and whispers, “But I want you to say no.”

He nods, then holds the door open for her like the gentleman he often fails to be. She walks away, and he goes to tell Daenerys his decision. 

  
  



End file.
